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IN  MEMORY  OF  WHITTIER 


$  .50 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR  : 
The  Old-Fashioned  Garden 

(out  of  print) 

The  Brandywine 

Illustrated  by  Robert  Shaw 

Swarthmore  Idylls 

Illustrated  by  Robert  Shaw 

$  .50 

Old  Meeting-Houses 

Illustrated  $1.00 

The  Biddle  Press 
Philadelphia 


r^imamsammi^^^ammm^^s^m^mmmmmmm^^^ 


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IN  MEMORY  OF  WHITTIER 

BY 
JOHN  RUSSELL  HAYES 

With  Illustrations 


Philadelphia  : 
THE    BIDDLE  PRESS 

London : 

Headley  Brothers 

1910 


LOAN  STACK 


Copyright  1910 
By   John  Russell  Hayes 


TO 
CHARLES  FRANCIS  JENKINS 


174 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Page 

Portrait  of  Whittier   Frontispiece 

The  Merrimac  by  Moonlight 8 

The  Artichoke  River    lO 

The  Meeting-House,  Amesbury    12 

''Our   hearth-fire' s  ruddy  glow'' i6 

Elizabeth    Whittier    1 8 

''That  ancient  house"   20 

"Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight" 22 

Whittier  s  Garden,  Amesbury    24 

"The  beach-birds  dance  and  the  gray  gulls  wheel" .  .  .  26 

"The  wonder  and  the  glory  of  the  sea" 32 

Whittier  s  Home,  Amesbury 34 

Whittier  s  Room,   Centre  Harbor,  N.  H 36 

Whittier  s  Study,  Amesbury 38 

Oak  Knoll   40 

Letter  to  Hannah  Cox 42 

The  Scene  of   Whittier  s  Last  Days 44 


IN  MEMORY  OF  WHITTIER 
I 

While  Whittier  lived  among  us  on  this  earth 
A  saintly  man  walked  our  familiar  ways, 
And,  like  the  saints  of  olden  time,  prevailed 
By  force  of  simple  goodness;  he  was  one 
Who  followed  righteousness  unwaveringly, 
Who  fought  the  good  fight  in  his  manly  prime, 
Who  dreamed  his  dreams,  and  in  high  melodies 
Chanted  his  dreams  and  poured  forth  his  great  soul. 

How  often  in  reflective  hours  I  love 

To  ponder  on  his  precious  verse,  and  muse 

On  his  victorious  and  noble  life! 

Where  shall  we  look  to  find  a  poet  brother 

Like  him  in  fine  simplicity,  so  meek, 

So  all  unworldly,  save  among  the  hills 

And  dreaming  lakes  of  the  old  mother-land, — 

Who  but  great  Wordsworth  heard  the  spirit*s  voice 

And  sang  its  message  In  like  melodies 

As  Whittier?    Who  but  our  Quaker  seer 

Knew  Nature's  inmost  heart  as  Wordsworth  knew? — 


A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 

And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth.  .  .  .well  pleased  to  recognize 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 

The  anchor  of  his  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse. 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  his  heart,  and  soul 

Of  all  his  moral  being. 

Think  not  the  poet,  calm  in  outward  mien, 
Is  not  profoundly  moved  by  loveliness; 
Beauty  and  goodness  feed  "that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude" ;  and  oft 
In  common  things  unseen  by  thoughtless  men, 
In  quiet  stream  or  cloud  or  wayside  flower, 
The  poet  finds  beatitude  and  joy. 
So  was  it  with  our  tranquil  Quaker  bard, — 
He  loved  all  beauty  on  this  lovely  earth. 
Cherished  and  mused  on  it,  till  it  became 
Part  of  his  dreamful  mind,   and  so  in  time 
Was  made  the  theme  of  his  delightful  song. 
He  loved  the  laughing  eyes  of  children  dear, 
The  charm  of  kind  and  winsome  womanhood 
Where  beauty  is  the  mark  of  heavenly  grace, 
The  fine  benignity  of  gray  old  men 
Crowned  with  deep  peacef ulness ;  he  loved  the  stars, 
The  tranquil  clouds  that  swim  the  heavenly  seas. 
The  wandering  moon,  and  sunset's  smouldering  fires. 
9 


IF^' 


i 


Melodious  brooks  he  loved,  and   rivers  blue, 
And  lordly  lakes  that  shimmer  'neath  the  sun  ; 
And  through  it  all  he  saw  God  manifest, 
Speaking  through  nature's  myriad  loveliness. 
And  with  his  worship  of  the  living  God 
As  manifest  in  cloud  and  stream  and  flower 
And  songs  of  joyous  birds,  he  blent  his  love 
Of  peaceful  hours  of  waiting  on  the  Lord 
In  quiet  meeting-hour; — O  deeply  wise. 
To  find  the  Father  in  the  holy  haunts 
Of  ancient  sea  and  wood,  and  equally 
Beneath  the  roof  in  the  still  house  of  prayer  !- 

Dream  not,  O  friend,  because  I  seek 

This  quiet  shelter  twice  a  week, 

I  better  deem  its  pine-laid  floor 

Than  breezy  hill  or  sea-sung  shore ; 

Invisible  and  silent  stands 

The  temple  never  made  with  hands. 

Unheard  the  voices  still  and  small 

Of  its  unseen  confessional. 

He  needs  no  special  place  of  prayer 

Whose  hearing  ear  is  everywhere. 

And   then  the  poet  tells  the  equal  joy 
Of  silent  worship  with  his  fellow-men 
Upon  the  ancient  benches  'mid  the  calm, — 
11 


.^f^ 


And  so  I  find  it  well  to  come 

For  deeper  rest  to  this  still  room, 

For  here  the  habit  of  the  soul 

Feels  less  the  outer  world's  control; 

And  from  the  silence  multiplied 

By   these  still  forms  on  either  side 

The  world  that  time  and  sense  have  known 

Falls  off  and  leaves  us  God  alone, 

A  heavenly  music  breathes  from  those  loved  lines; 
And  all  our  old  ancestral  faith  revives 
And  gains  fresh  dignity  when  thus  portrayed 
So  tenderly  and  w^ith  so  great  a  charm. 


13 


II 

Nor  less  I  love  our  Poet  when  he  sings 

The  homely,  quaint  old-fashioned  country  life, 

The  golden  summers  when  he  roved  and  dreamed 

A  happy  barefoot  boy;  the  wholesome  fare, 

The  rustic  labors.     Whittier  tells  of  these 

In  new-world  eclogues  sweet  as  Virgil's  own. 

Fragrant    with  wood  grapes,  hay  fields,  wild  strawberries, 

With  forest  flowers  and  laden  orchard  boughs, 

Musical  with  the  murmur  of  wild  bees. 

With  lowing  cattle  and  with  bubbling  springs. 

And  songs  of  robins  and  of  orioles. 

O  for  boyhood's  painless  play. 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day. 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor  s  rules. 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools. 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase. 
Of  the  wild-flower  s  time  and  place. 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side. 
Thou   hast   more   than   he   can   buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye, — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 
Blessings  on   thee,  barefoot  boy! 

15 


5 


And  who  loves  not  the  dear  familiar  lines 
That  tell  of  winter's  brisk  and  wholesome  tasks 
And  cheery  fireside  joys;  and,  breathed  o'er  all, 
The  loving  spirit  of  sacred  memories, 
The  mystery  of  God's  unfading  peace! 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without. 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about. 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In   baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat; 
And    ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed. 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed. 
What   matter   how   the  night   behaved? 
What  matter  how  the  north-wind  raved? 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy  glow. 
O  Time  and  Change! — zuith  hair  as  gray 
As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day. 
How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gone 
Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on! 
Ah,  brother!  only  I  and  thou 
Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now, — 

17 


Elizabeth  Whittier 

{The  poet's  sister) 


The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 

That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 

Henceforward,   listen   as   we   will. 

The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still; 

Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth  o'er. 

Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more. 

Yet  Love  will  dream,  and  Faith  will  trust, 
{Since  He  who   knows   our   need  is  just,) 
That  sojuehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must. 
Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees! 
IV ho,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away. 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play! 
fVho  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith. 

The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown. 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 

And  Love  can  never  lose  it  own! 


19 


Ill 

Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more, — ah  me, 

Who  hath  not  felt  the  tender  sad  regret 

That  surges  to  the  heart  amid  the  scenes 

And  haunts  of  childhood !    Whittier  speaks  our  love, 

Deep  and  enduring,  for  the  ancient  farms 

And  tranquil  homesteads  dear  to  memory. 

Yet  touched  with  endless  pathos  through  the  years 

Since  now  our  loved  ones  greet  us  there  no  more 

At  garden  gate  or  by  the  ruddy  hearth. 

Such  pathos  clings  about  that  ancient  house 

'Mid  the  green  meadows  and  the  orchard  slopes 

Where  Whittier's  boyhood  passed, — an  old-time  house 

With  centuried  traditions,  now  bereft 

And  silent  since  the  Poet  comes  no  more, — 

Silent,  yet  eloquent  of  happy  years. 

Of  rustic  labor  and  of  kindly  deeds 

And  family  love  and  sweet  content  and  peace. 

Here  foams  the  little  brook,  dear  to  his  heart, 
Down  through  the  idyllic  grove  and  'mid  the  fields 
Below  the  orchard  on  the  breezy  hill, 
Singing  as  joyously  now  as  of  yore. 

Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 

21 


''Laughed  the  brook  for  my  deliuht" 


IVhispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with   me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  zvalnut  slopes  beyond. 
Mine,   on   bending   orchard  trees. 
Apples  of  Hesperides! 

Here  stands  the  long  low  heavy-timbered  barn 
Across  the  road,  with  fragrant  granary 
And  deep-set  mows  and  antique  shop  and  forge,- 
Lonely  and  silent  now,  where  once  the  boy 
Took  part  In  all  the  wholesome  country  tasks 
Among  the  friendly,  patient  animals, — 

Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  doivn  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows: 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn. 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  roivs 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bozvs. 

Not  far  away  the  Poet's  well-loved  haunt, 
Great  Hill,  stands  up  against  the  breezy  sky, 
From  whose  high  crest  are  many  cities  seen, 
Hamlets  and  busy  towns,  and  silver  lakes 
'Mid  forests  dark;  and  In  the  dreamy  west 
Monadnock  towering  heavenward ;  far  to  south 

23 


That  old  romantic  mountain  grand  and  lone, 
Wachusett ;  with  the  billowy  Deerfield  range 
Dim  on  the  northern  line;  while,  bright  with  sails, 
Grey  ocean  heaves  and  slumbers  peacefully 
Or  rolls  and  flashes  In  the  morning  sun 
Magnificent. 

There  lately  as  I  roved 
By  that  old  house  and  down  that  little  stream 
And  o'er  those  breezy  hills,  how  poignantly 
I  felt  the  solemn  beauty  of  It  all ! 
Each  spot  seemed  hallowed  by  the  tender  thought 
Of  Whittler's  youthful  years;  each  woodland  haunt, 
Each  fair  New  England  landscape,  each  old  room 
Of  that  dear  memorled  house,  seemed  eloquent 
Of  him  who  worked  and  pondered  here,  who  fed 
His  dreams  amid  these  quiet  groves  and  fields 
And  nourished  his  great  soul  among  these  hills. 

Dear  home-land  haunts,  the  simple  Quaker  bard 
Loved  you  beyond  all  fancied  scenes  afar; 
And  If  at  times  he  mused  with  mild  regret 
On  Syrian  lands,  on  Venice,  or  the  Alps, 
Whose  charms  he  might  behold  In  dreams  alone 
And  w^Istful  thought, — ^yet  loyally  he  clung 
To  his  dear  home-land  hills,  meekly  content 
To  bide  through  life  near  those  ancestral  scenes, — 
Scenes  that  sufficed  his  warm  home-loving  heart. 

25 


The  eye  may  well  be  glad  that  looks 

Where  Pharpars  fountains  rise  and  fall; 
But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 

Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them  all. 
The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 
Rise  round  him  in  the  snow  and  wind; 
From  his  lone  sweet  brier  Persian  Hafiz  smiles. 
And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his  woodland  aisles. 

Home  of  my  heart!  to  me  more  fair 

Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor  s  halls. 

The  painted,  shingly  town-house  where 
The  freeman  s  vote  for  Freedom  falls! 

And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these  dales. 

And  perch  along  these  wooded  swells; 
And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales. 

They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells! 
Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime. 
Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time. 
But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  the  race. 
Old  home-bred  virtues  hold  their  not  unhonored  place. 


27 


IV 

I  love  his   Songs  of  Labor,  sweet  with  sounds 
Of  wholesome  toil  and  rustic  fellowship, 
Fragrant  of  forests  and  of  ocean  winds. 
He  sings  the  golden  harvests  of  the  corn 
In  mild  October,  of  old  kitchen  hearths 
And  rosy  country  girls,  of  long  stone  barns 
And  creaking  harvest- wagons, — all  the  scenes 
Of  quaint  old-fashioned  merry  husking-bees. 

Heap  high  the  farmer  s  wintry  hoard! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine. 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green. 

The  cluster  from  the  vine; 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 

The  hills  our  fathers  trod; 
Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn. 

Send  up  our  thanks  to  God! 

The  building  of  the  stately  ships  he  sings, 

Where  sturdy  wrights  and  smiths,  from  centuried  oak 

And  ringing  iron,  form  with  cheery  zeal 

29 


The  mighty  barks  that  sail  the  ocean's  fields. 
High  destiny  the  poet  wishes  her, 
Each  lordly  vessel — freight  of  golden  grain 
And  fruits  and  balmy  spice, — no  cargoes  base 
Of  groaning  slaves  or  draughts  that  dull  the  soul. 

God   bless    her!   wheresoever   the   breeze 

Her  snowy  wings  shall  fan. 
Aside   the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  HindostanI 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main. 

With   peaceful  flag  unfurled. 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world! 

So  with  the  drovers  and  the  fisher-folk 

And  men  who  fell  great  trees  on  mountain-slopes,- 

His  kindly  heart  with  cheery  comradeship 

Warms  toward  them  all ;  and  toil  till  now  unsung 

Finds  glory  in  his  lays,  and  humble  men 

Grow  noble  in  his  verse  sincere  and  strong. 

How  like  his  well-loved  Burns  does  Whittier  seem 

In  these  his  poems  of  democracy! 

And  who  loves  not  his  Ballads,  epics  true 
Though  brief  and  simple,  of  heroic  deeds, 
Of  sacrifice  upon  the  stormy  seas 
And  great  devotions  in  life's  daily  fields! 

30 


Happy  the  child  who  nourishes  his  dreams 
And  builds  his  pure  ideals  from  these  tales! 
And  how  for  us  old  memory  wakes  and  thrills 
O'er   Barbara   Frietchie's   splendid    loyalty, — 
Or  hears  once  more  on  India's  far  fields 
The  blithe  and  tender  pipes  of  Lucknow  blow, — 
Or  looks  on  sweet  Maud  MuUer  raking  hay 
In  that  unfading  pensive  pastoral  scene, — 
Or  sees  soft  Pity  and  Love  like  angels  shine 
Above  sad  Buena  Vista's  battle-field ! 

The  wonder  and  the  glory  of  the  sea 

Breathe  in  these  Ballads; — ^hundred-harbored  Maine, 

The  Rocks  of  Rivermouth,   the  steady  chime 

Of  sunset  waves  around  fair  Appledore, — 

They  live  for  us  as  vividly  to-day 

As  when  they  first  enthralled  us  in  his  song. 

O    I   could   listen   hour  on   golden   hour 

To  Whittier's  moving  and  melodious  lays! 

Beside  the  ruddy  hearth  on  winter  nights 

They  gain  a  fresh  impressiveness,  they  stir 

Kindly  affection  and  soft  sympathy. 

And  leave  us  nobler  for  their  lessons  pure. 


31 


^ 

?. 


V 

We  who  are  native  to  these  dreamy  hills 
And  valleys  green  of  Penn^s  old  Commonwealth, — 
These  old-time  Quaker  shires  that  Whittier  loved, 
Chester,  and  Bucks,  and  Delaware, — must  prize 
''The  Pennsylvania  Pilgrim,"  chief  among 
Our  poet's  ballads ;  'tis  a  heart- felt  tale. 
And  warm  with  Whittier's  sweetest  kindliness 
And  Quaker  sympathy;  he  wrote  no  verse 
More  fragrant  of  the  dear  old  Faith  we  hold. 
More  beautiful  with  pictures  of  the  peace 
And  fruitful  silence  of  the  Meeting  hour, — 

Fair  First-Day  mornings,  steeped  in  summer  calm. 
Warm,  tender,  restful,  sweet  with  woodland  balm. 
Came  to  him,  like  some  mother-hallowed  psalm. 

Lowly  before  the  Unseen  Presence  knelt 
Each  waiting  heart,  till  haply  some  one  felt 
On  his  moved  lips  the  seal  of  silence  melt. 

Or,  without  spoken  words,  low  breathings  stole 
Of  a  diviner  life  from  soul  to  soul. 
Baptizing  in  one  tender  thought  the  whole. 

And,  noblest  strains  of  all,  he  sang  his  faith 
In  the  Divine  in  man  upon  this  earth — 
Immanuel,  God  in  each  human  heart. 
The  crowning  glory  of  his  muse  are  they, 

33 


J 

CO 

;  s 


These  paeans  and  these  hymns ;  they  have  the  fire 

And  grandeur  of  the  old  prophetic  vein  ; 

They  flame  w^ith  inspiration  straight  from  God; 

They  shine  with  heavenly  hope  and  heavenly  grace. 

Where  shall  w^e  find  more  comfort,  greater  cheer, 

Than  in  these  hymns  and  prophecies !     What  v^^ords 

Apart  from  Holy  Writ  can  equal  quite 

**The   Eternal   Goodness"   in  wide  charity 

And  child-sweet  faith   in  the  All-Father's  love? — 

His  most  majestic   utterance,  most  informed 

With  his  heart's  deepest  faith.     I  never  hear 

Its  sad  and  lovely  cadences  from  lips 

Of  earnest  worshippers,  but  that  I  say — 

Here  is  a  creed  for  all  the  tribes  of  earth! 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things. 

And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood. 
To   one  fixed  trust  my   spirit  clings; 

I  know  that  God  is  good! 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above: 
I  know  not  of  His  hate, — /  know 

His  goodness  and  His  love. 

I  dimly  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight. 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too   are  right. 

35 


05 


.tl5 


05  i 

OS    O 


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/  long  for  household  voices  gone, 

For  vanished  smiles  I  long, 
But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on. 

And  He  can  do  no  wrong. 

I   know   not  what   the  future   hath 

Of  marvel   or  surprise. 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy   underlies. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

And  Thou,  O  Lord!  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be. 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee! 

"The  Eternal  Goodness," — it  hath  breathed  its  fire 
On  many  a  rapt  soul ;  many  a  prayer  and  poem 
Hath  sprung  to  life  inspired  by  Whittier's  hymn. 
Thus  with  a  younger  poet  of  our  land 
It  took  the  form  of  such  a  prayer  as  this: 

37 


^  "^ 
^ 


g 


Christ  of  Judea,  look  thou  in  my  heart! 
Pure  soul  and  tenderest  of  all  that  came 
Into  this  world  of  sorrow ^  hear  my  prayer: 
Lead  me,  yea  lead  me  deeper  into  life, 
This  suffering,  human  life  wherein  thou  liv'st 
And  breathest  still,  and  hold'st  thy  way  divine, 
'Tis  here,  O  pitying  Christ,  where  thee  I  seek. 
Here  where  the  strife  is  fiercest;  where  the  sun 
Beats  down  upon  the  highway  thronged  with  men. 
And  in  the  raging  mart.     Oh!  deeper  lead 
My  soul  into  the  living  world  of  souls 
Where    thou    dost    move. 

But  lead  me,  Man  Divine, 
Where'er  thou   wilVst,   only   that  I  may  find 
At  the  long  journey's  end  thy  image  there. 
And  grow  more  like  to  it.     For  art  not  thou 
The  human  shadow  of  the  infinite  Love 
That  made  and  fills  the  endless  universe! 
The  very  Word  of  him,  the  unseen,  unknown 
Eternal  Good  that  rules  the  summer  flower 
And  all  the  worlds  that  people  starry  space!*- 


•From    "Credo,"   by   Richard   Watson  Gilder 

39 


VI 


And  now,  what  can  I  say  of  Whittier's  power, — 

Why  should  he  see  great  visions,  and  dream  dreams, 

And  voice  them  in  undying  melodies? 

O  friends,  I  know  he  saw, — and  felt, — and  sang, — 

Because  he  ever  kept  one  pure  ideal, 

One  starry  gleam,  before  him  all  his  days. 

He  dwelt  with  Beauty,  and  he  loved  her  well ; 

With  Goodness,  and  he  followed  her  behest. 

And  never  any  worldliness  or  pride, 

Baseness  or  jealousy,  had  lodging-place 

In  his  calm  spirit ;  he  was  not  disturbed 

By  storms  that  overwhelm  less  steadfast  souls; 

But  clear  of  vision  and  high-heartedly 

He  saw  Truth  shining  still,  a  flaming  star 

That  brightened  all  his  path  and  made  his  years, — 

Albeit  he  had  sailed  thro*  troubled  seas, — 

One  blessed  course  of  pure  tranquillity; 

And  once  again  upon  this  ancient  earth 

A  saintly  man  walked  our  familiar  ways. 


Would  I  had  seen  our  saintly  Whittier, 
The  noble,  gray  old  Poet,  face  to  face; 
Would  he  had  come  to  Swarthmore  now  and  then 
In  his  ripe  years,  as  in  old  days  long  past 

41 


Letter  to  Hannah  Cox,  Lonpwood, 

near  Kennett,  Pennsylvania, 

from  Amesbury,  Mass., 

25th  9th  mo.  1873 


■  V  ^  /  <:? 


. .  /^V< 


He  came  to  these  old  Pennsylvania  hills 

And  visited  in  ancient  Quaker  homes! 

Those  deep,  dark  eyes,  those  firm  sweet-smiling  lips, 

That  gracious  aspect  of  benignity, — 

How  they  had  blest  our  youth!     O  I  must  grieve 

To  think  we  of  the  younger  Quaker  line 

Have  never  looked  upon   his  kindly   face. 

Heard  his  sweet  words  of  peace  and  friendliness, 

Or  felt  his  cordial  hand-clasp.     It  had  been 

A  consecration  to  remember  him. 

The  great  and  simple  Friend,  the  Quaker  Seer! 

Straight  as  a  mountain  pine. 

With  the  mountain  eagle's  eye. 
With  the  hand-clasp  strong,  and  the  unhushed  song. 

Was   it   time  for  him   to   die? 

Prophet  and  priest  he  stood 

In  the  storm  of  embattled  years; 
The  broken  chain  was  his  harp's  refrain. 

And  the  peace  that  is  balm  for  tears. 

The  hills  and  the  valleys  knew 

The  Poet  who  kept  their  tryst. 
To  our  common  life  and  our  daily  strife 

He  brought   the   blessing  of  Christ, 
43 


^ 

't^' 


I 


And  we  never  thought  him  old. 

Though  his  locks  were  white  as  snow, 

O  heart  of  gold,  grown  suddenly  cold. 
It  was  not  time  to  go/* 


^"Whittier,"  by  Margaret   E.   Sangster 

45 


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